


Endlessly

by dentedsky



Category: Dissidia: Final Fantasy
Genre: Angst, Community: ffchaoticcosmos, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-23
Updated: 2011-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 00:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dentedsky/pseuds/dentedsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His memories forcefully taken from him, Squall becomes a warrior of Chaos. But there is one friend he will always remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endlessly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kunenk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kunenk/gifts).



\- - -

 _I won’t leave you falling  
If the moment ever comes_  
\-- ‘Endlessly’ by Muse

\- - -

 _  
**Then**   
_

The three of them had been in the old Chaos shrine. They stood on the edge of the next area, looking down into the green expanse of the Planet’s Core. On Squall’s right Bartz said, voice a little husky with fear, “I’m not good with heights.” He curled into Squall’s side and grabbed his arm gently. Squall willed himself not to react at the feel of his friend so close. Bartz turned his face, nose brushing Squall’s cheek. He asked, almost whining and child-like, “Can we go somewhere else?”

Bartz’s breath ghosted over Squall’s jaw. Squall blinked slowly several times. “It smells strange here,” he agreed.

“Smells like magic,” Zidane piped up from Squall’s left. “Like the burning residue left after Dagger has summoned an Eidolon.” He made a small noise as the pushed off from the ledge, dashing into the green below.

Bartz pulled away from Squall’s side and put his fists on his hips. “’Like the burning residue left after Dagger has summoned an Eidolon,’” he mimicked. He visibly deflated and shook his head. “Nup, still don’t understand a word he said.”

“Hnn,” Squall half-laughed, watching him side-along. Then he glanced down to see Zidane sliding up and down the long streams of bright green. “Stop procrastinating,” he drawled.

Squall wasn’t looking at Bartz, but even so he felt the hesitation as keen as a pressure from his right. After this soundless beat Squall sensed Bartz move behind him, then felt the pressure on his shoulders as Bartz hugged him from behind.

“I’ll be less scared if you give me a piggy back ride,” Bartz murmured lowly in Squall’s ear. The words should have been spoken playfully, but they sounded deep and promising and sent a lead weight to drop down into Squall’s stomach.

Squall glanced back briefly and caught the flutter of Bartz’s eyelashes. He looked down, said, “Hold on tight,” and dashed down, aiming for the lowest plateau.

The air rushed through their hair, past their ears, and ruffled their clothes. Bartz whooped loudly before the two of them landed gracelessly. Bartz tripped over Squall’s feet as he landed, and Squall twisted around to catch him in his arms, only they both didn’t really achieve an upright landing. Instead Squall fell to the ground on his back, dragging Bartz down with him.

Bartz huffed out a laugh, head bent, bracing himself on Squall’s chest. Squall grunted and allowed himself a moment to take in the sweep of Bartz’s eyelashes as he looked down into Squall’s eyes. Squall looked away and up and tried to ignore the way Bartz’s thighs were sliding over his legs. Something was happening above them anyway, and that was certainly enough of a distraction.

“Zidane,” Squall muttered, noticing that the boy was fighting someone some distance above them. Shards of light sprung off in all different directions as Zidane’s twin swords glanced off another’s weapon.

“What?” Bartz whispered, hands clenching into fists. He shot up to his feet and followed Squall’s line of sight. “Oh.”

“It’s a manikin,” Squall observed, as he got to his feet. He braced himself to dash towards Zidane’s opponent, only to stop himself as something moved from the side –

Another manikin – a Sephiroth one – came out of seemingly nowhere and took aim at Bartz from behind. Squall didn’t think; he dashed towards Bartz, pushed him aside, and took the brunt of the attack meant for his friend. The masamune sword swiped across, gutting him from left shoulder to right hip. There was a beat before blood spurted from the wound and Squall caught the pain of it all at once, suffocating and sharp.

\- - -

 **  
_Now_   
**

_There’s a boy in blue and gold, and he’s running through a field of flowers. He’s shouting something – a name – but no matter how fast he runs he will never catch up. The petals scatter with the movement of his run -_

Squall is in Pandaemonium.

The sorceress’s knight knows he’s not there to ask questions, though he’s there to learn. He will follow his sorceress and obey any command she gives him provided they do not contradict Chaos’s wishes.

He leans, back to the wall, and crosses his arms over his chest. Nearby, Sorceress Ultimecia sighs loudly and impatiently.

The Emperor Mateus lifts his sceptre. “Is he ready?”

“He is more than ready,” Ultimecia drawls. She glances to Squall then back to the Emperor. “Confer with Jecht if you are unsure of his capabilities.”

“I’m sure he is more than capable,” the Emperor shoots back, “but can he be trusted?”

Squall pushes himself away from the wall and stands tall. “I am here at your disposal,” he says with confidence and deference.

The Emperor gives him a long stare, taking in Squall’s stance, dark clothing and dulled expression. Finally he gives a brusque nod. “You must find the meddlesome warrior known as Firion,” he commands, “and kill him.”

Squall bows to his masters one after the other, then walks away and around the corner. As he leaves he hears Ultimecia say, terse and incredulous, “That’s it? It’s obvious you’re only testing him. He will pass.”

“We shall see,” is the reply.

Squall does not linger. Towards the edge of the area another ally approaches him, stepping lightly, elegant even with the most simple of movements.

Squall stops. He gives the ally a side-along glance. “Was there something you wanted?” he murmurs, making sure to keep his tone as disinterested as possible.

For a second Kuja’s expression shows great offence before smoothing into feigned disinterest. He waves a lofty hand. “How entertaining, that the lonely lion becomes the lonely traitor.”

Squall swings his gunblade onto his shoulder and turns his back towards the other. “I’m not interested in your fallacious observations.”

“ _Ohh_ ,” says Kuja, floating into the air and gliding over, stopping just in front of Squall, “such big words for such a mindless pawn.” He makes another gesture. “Are you going to follow orders today little lion? Or do you need baby-sitting?”

Squalls sneers. “If you’re hoping to out me as a traitor to Chaos,” he tells Kuja with menace, “then you’re wasting your time.”

Kuja chuckles softly, fingers pressed to lips. Squall observes that the man is beautiful, but stupid. Unlike Squall Kuja has no skills in masking his emotions. His theatrics are over the top and inspire no one. “I’m not here to out you as a traitor; far from it, in fact.”

For the first time, Squall believes him. He steps past the glider and heads for the edge of Pandaemonium. “Then our conversation is over.”

“Don’t you want to know where your target is?” Kuja says quickly, throwing the words out for Squall to catch.

It’s enough to stop Squall though. He half turns on the spot, gazing lazily at Kuja over his shoulder. “Where is he?” he asks.

Kuja smirks and Squall tries not to roll his eyes at the obvious triumph in Kuja’s expression. “In the Crystal World,” Kuja tells him, “just beyond our territory.”

Squall nods. “Thank you,” he says, turning away. He walks a couple of steps and stops. He doesn’t turn to his companion when he says, “Kuja – we can’t be friends.”

There’s a choked noise from behind as if Kuja is choking back his anger. “I don’t _want friends - !_ ”

Kuja possibly says more, but Squall doesn’t hear because he’s walking away, and he knows it’s not important.

\- - -

 _  
**Then**   
_

Squall awoke to the sound of the tent sides flapping in the wind. The second sound was the soft snores of Zidane and the third was Bartz shuffling into a sitting position.

Bartz leaned over him. There was just enough light for Squall to make out his facial features and shoulders. Bartz grinned. “You feeling okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Squall croaked. He cleared his throat. “What happened?”

“You saved me,” Bartz replied, eyes widening sincerely as if surprised by his own words. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’ll always have your back,” Squall whispered, midnight emotions making his voice husky. He hoped Bartz assumed the huskiness was from just waking.

Bartz smiled in genuine happiness, big and happy and incredibly beautiful. Squall took in as much as he allowed himself, eyes scanning over his friend’s eyes, nose and mouth before finally looking away to the side, frowning to himself.

There a shuffle, then a small sigh from Bartz, as if in disappointment, and Squall allowed himself to look back at his friend. Bartz had sat up proper and was looking away, shoulders slumped, expression indecipherable in the shadows.

“Goodnight,” said Squall.

Bartz looked back at him and smiled, tight-lipped, and slumped down gracelessly next to him. He shifted and jammed his elbow into Squall’s side and left it there. Squall was thankful for the touch, feeling Bartz’s warmth spread from his side to his chest.

Oh Hyne, he had it bad.

When he first met Bartz, Squall had been in denial about his feelings; after all, he’d only been attracted to one other person, and that had been Rinoa. He hadn’t known he could be attracted to a man. It didn’t take all that long for him to admit it to himself, though – it was hard to keep away from Bartz – and so he came to the acceptance: that he was a little bit in love with him.

And it would have been fine, he could suffer it alone, suffering alone was what he did best. Except Bartz was always _there_ touching him, talking to him, fighting alongside him like a companion, like a partner.

These thoughts and more prevented him from sleep. An indiscernible amount of time later, he heard Zidane awaken, get up and leave the tent. Squall waited a couple of seconds before getting up and exiting the tent himself. A quick look around was enough to spot Zidane on a higher plateau. He was talking to someone.

He slid up the green and connected with the higher ground. Zidane and Kuja turned to him upon his arrival.

“What’s going on?” Squall demanded.

Zidane hesitated, mouth twisted, then stepped forward and explained, “Kuja says Bartz is in danger.”

“ _What?_ ” Squall barked, not at Zidane, but at Kuja, who was hovering far enough away as if he wanted to flee from the conversation. Squall summoned his gunblade and took an aggressive step towards him, but he was hindered by Zidane stepping in front of Squall, hands on his arms.

“He means well,” Zidane told him, “I promise.”

“Tell me,” Squall snarled at Kuja, over Zidane’s head. Kuja flinched.

“I don’t need this,” said Kuja, elegantly pushing his long silver hair back over one shoulder.

Zidane ran over to him. “Please tell us,” he implored, fists clenched at his side. “Please Kuja, tell us why.”

Kuja looked down at him and his expression softened into deep affection. He gazed over Zidane’s head at Squall and said, “Sephiroth seems to think a warrior with the ability to copy others’ abilities is of high value.” He floated into the air. “So now you know. Keep your friends close.”

Then he glided away, and disappeared.

Zidane and Squall stared at each other for a moment. Zidane’s tail flicked from side-to-side and the gunblade felt heavy on Squall’s shoulder.

“We don’t tell him,” said Zidane.

Squall clenched his jaw. “Fine by me.”

“Hey!” Bartz called amicably from behind Squall. Squall turned to see him sliding up the green stream and land on the plateau. Bartz looked between Squall and Zidane, smile a little tight. “What are you guys doing?”

“Oh nothing,” Zidane lied, badly. “Just talking. I’ll go pack up the tent and stuff.” He dashed off the plateau.

Bartz stepped towards Squall; Squall had never seen him walk so carefully before. Squall kept still and watched him approach; Bartz’s head was bent down a little, brown bangs falling into his eyes.

Bartz rubbed his own arms, as if he were cold. “That’s weird,” he commented lightly, “you and Zidane... standing here together, alone...” he trailed off and gave Squall one of those strange smiles again.

Squall glanced away and then back again. “It’s not that weird.”

“Right,” said Bartz, nodding slightly, though there was disbelief present in his expression.

Squall shifted his weight to the other leg and swallowed. “Zidane and I aren’t... you know...” He scowled at himself. “I like someone else,” he blurted out, and instantly regretted it when Bartz’s head shot up. He stared at Squall imploringly.

“You like someone else?” Bartz enquired, voice quiet yet emotional. “Who?”

Squall shook his head and turned away. “Just someone,” he said.

“Right,” said Bartz again, hurt evident in his tone. But he said nothing more as he turned around and stepped to the edge. He slid the green to the ground below.

\- - -

 **  
_Now_   
**

_\- and sunlight catches in his brown hair and the tears welling in eyes._

It doesn’t take long for Squall to find the weapon specialist in the Crystal World. The tanned skinned man is sitting cross-legged on the orange ground, weapons neatly spread in a semi-circle in front of him. He is polishing his axe.

He is accompanied by the Warrior of Light, who is standing to the side, on guard. The Warrior of Light lifts one hand in greeting as Squall approaches. “Welcome, comrade!” he calls. “Won’t you join us? We are taking a temporary respite from battle. Many hardships lay before us.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have much to offer but water,” says Firion as he places his axe down on the ground. He leans his elbows on his knees and bows forward, looking Squall straight in the eye. Squall notes his handsome face, his strong arms, and his deep, soothing voice as he adds, “But we have a potion if you need.”

“I’m here on official business,” Squall drawls. He summons the gunblade into his right hand and points it towards Firion. “Pick up your weapon.”

Firion stands. With one lightning-fast movement, all his weapons equip themselves onto his person.

“Wait,” the Warrior of Light tells him. Firion does. The Warrior of Light turns his frown towards Squall. “You once taught me that fighting together is not the only way to lend strength to others,” he says lowly. “You had carved out your own path and I respect that. But I had told you one important fact, and not to forget it. Do you remember what that was?”

“I don’t,” says Squall.

The warrior frowns further. “Do you remember our conversation?”

“I don’t remember you at all.”

The warrior breaths in deeply through his nose. “I told you that none of us alone, and that all paths meet as one.” A beat. “I would have thought you’d have met up with your comrades by now.”

Squall shifts his weight, impatient for the fight that is coming. “What’s your point? Get on with it.”

“I only wish to know why you challenge Firion to a duel.”

“Because,” says Squall, stepping past him and to the weapons master, “we only live to fight.”

Firion nods. “I accept your challenge.”

“No,” Warrior of Light protests as Firion slices up with his sword and Squall dodges, “this is wrong.”

But he is ignored. Squall attacks relentlessly while Firion is more cautious, dodging and often dangling just out of Squall’s reach. He attacks Firion several times, wearing him down little by little, until he has him smashed up against the side of the cliff, and Squall’s about to perform the killing blow –

And then Warrior of Light appears in front of him, guarding Firion. He shouts, “SHINE!” and Squall is blown away. As soon as his feet land on the nearest platform, he dashes through the air, slips past the warrior and stabs Firion in the chest.

Firion is impaled. Squall’s gunblade pins him to the orange cliff like a butterfly. His breath is hitching. Blood oozes from his mouth, down his chin.

Both Warrior of Light and Squall land on the platform, staring up at the bloody art Squall has made. “ _No_ ,” the warrior whispers. He dashes away and runs up the side of the cliff to his friend. But he gets there too late: Firion is dying, his body fading into floating points of rainbow light. The gunblade disappears.

The Warrior of Light floats back down to the platform, his expression desolate. There’s a fierceness there, though, an anger. Squall feels a stab of guilt and it compels him to say, “He will spawn soon.”

“I am aware of what happens when one dies in this world,” the warrior grits out. He pulls out his sword. “Are you ready?”

A commanding voice from behind Squall says, “He is not.”

Squall turns. The Emperor stands on a platform nearby. “You’ve done well,” he says.

“You’re on Chaos’s side now,” says Warrior of Light, catching Squall’s attention back. “I should have known.”

“The friend you knew before is no more,” the Emperor agrees. He turns to leave and Squall follows, jumping over to the next platform, but as he does he hears voices and footsteps on the cliff above.

“Maybe he’ll meet us there,” says an optimistic voice.

“I don’t think so,” says another. This voice is a little deeper with sadness, and just hearing it tugs on Squall’s heart, though he knows not why.

The two people make an appearance at the edge of the cliff, looking down. One is short and blonde and the other –

Squall stares. This one is very familiar, because he’s in Squall’s dreams, running through a field of flowers. They’re too far away from each other for Squall to make out specific features such as the colour of his eyes, though in the dream the man’s eyes are brown.

The man is also staring. Then he breaks out into a grin. “Squall? Is that you?” From his peripheral vision Squall notes the Emperor moving, though he can’t tear his gaze away from the man on the cliff. “Squall!” the man calls, and something in Squall’s chest constricts. “I _knew_ you were still alive!” He laughs loudly in happiness. “Wait there – I’m coming down.”

“Who – “ Squall blurts out. The man is getting reading to jump.

The Emperor grab’s Squall’s arm. “We’re leaving,” he tells him, and uses a spell to drag them out of the Crystal World.

\- - -

 _  
**Then**   
_

Lunar Subterrane was dark and dusty and possibly the most boring place to look at out of all the areas they’d been to.

But no matter the place or time, Bartz was always entertaining.

He was singing some silly pirate song from his old world. He stopped singing and slung one arm around Squall’s shoulders. “What did you used to eat in your world?” he asked.

“Hotdogs,” said Squall instantly, even though it wasn’t a food he particularly liked. He could never concentrate on proper conversation whenever Bartz was around, especially when he was draped all over him like he was now.

“So,” Zidane put in tentatively, “you eat dogs in your world?”

“No,” said Squall, as Bartz made ‘eewww’ noises, “they’re made from some other animal.”

Bartz got in even closer, causing Squall to almost trip over his feet. “But you don’t like it much, right?” Bartz asked, grinning. “I can tell by the look on your face.”

“How?” said Zidane, incredulous. “He frowns all the time. No offence,” he added to Squall.

“None taken,” Squall drawled.

Bartz moved his face away a little, narrowing his eyes at him and biting his bottom lip in concentration. “I don’t know...” he said slowly. “I can just tell.” He widened his eyes innocently. “It’s like I know you... really well. I can tell anything about you.”

Squall turned his face away from the close scrutiny. “Can you,” he murmured.

“Guys,” said Zidane sharply, stopping suddenly, “I feel something.”

Bartz slowly and carefully pulled his arm from around Squall’s shoulders. “Someone’s here,” he agreed. Squall looked around and saw the glint of light from a drawn sword in the distance.

“I think I know who it is,” he said. He could never forget that sword, the way it had sliced him open. “Alright. Bartz, Zidane – hide behind here.” He gently pushed Bartz towards the nearest flat mountain. Once they were all crouched behind it he whispered to Zidane, “Take Bartz and run.”

“ _What?_ ” Bartz demanded as behind him Zidane nodded. Bartz whipped his head around and looked at Zidane, then back at Squall, scrutinising. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Squall and Zidane shared glances. Then Squall gently took Bartz by the shoulders and looked him straight in his wide, brown eyes. Bartz’s expression softened, lips parting expectantly. “I need you to be safe,” Squall told him.

Bartz scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “You’re acting like I can’t fight for myself,” he said. “But I _can_ fight, pretty well actually!”

Squall let his hands smooth down the other man’s shoulders and biceps, lingering before pulling his hands away. “I’m afraid Sephiroth is too strong. I’ll distract him while you and Zidane run.”

“No,” said Bartz instantly. “I’m all for fleeing if an enemy is too strong to handle, but if we flee we flee together.”

“Not this time.”

“Yes! Squall don’t – no – “

But Squall was dashing away from them as fast as he could to the direction he had last seen his enemy. He ran up the wall of a tall plateau and landed, and looked around, heart hammering in his chest.

“So the lion stalks the savannah,” said a silky voice from behind him.

Squall forced himself to act casual. He looked over his shoulder and saw his enemy there, staring unabashed with glowing green eyes.

Those eyes flicked over him from head to toe, then back again. “You’re not the one I’m after,” said Sephiroth. “Where’s the other one? Did the scared little mouse skitter away?”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Squall lied, turning to face his enemy properly.

“Hmn,” Sephiroth chuckled. “Your kind are such liars. I heard voices echoing; you were talking to someone.”

“He was talking to me,” said a new voice. Kuja glided over and landed on their plateau. His eyes passed over Squall very briefly before fixing on Sephiroth. “I was interrogating him to find out where the little mouse had gone.”

“And?”

“Seems he knows nothing,” Kuja replied, expressionless eyes travelling to Squall once more. “He is not even worth the fight.”

Sephiroth made another amused noise. “I’ll be the judge of that.” As quick as light his sword moved – he stabbed Squall through his middle. Squall gasped loudly as pain shot through his body. He was further winded as Sephiroth lifted him on his sword. Squall grabbed it to lessen the cut and to stop himself from sliding down the metal.

He barely saw or heard anything beyond the throbbing pain. It was all too much. His enemies were talking, and he tried to focus beyond the thumping of his blood in his ears.

“ – takes a lion to catch a mouse,” Sephiroth was saying.

There were words from Kuja that sounded like a protest.

“Why don’t you do something useful and go have a look around?” said Sephiroth. “They might be near.”

Squall saw Kuja leave reluctantly through the red of his fading vision. At least Bartz was safe, that was the most important thing. He and Zidane would be long gone and even if they weren’t, he knew Kuja would not tell Sephiroth their whereabouts. He didn’t know Kuja’s intentions, but he had to trust him on this. He had to stay sane and to do that he had to believe Bartz was going to be okay.

Finally Sephiroth got bored and threw him over the edge of the cliff. Squall fell, grunting as he hit the ground, badly. He clutched the bloody hole in his stomach, curling in on himself. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sephiroth float down lazily then land beside his head.

“Why?” Squall gasped out.

“Why what?” said Sephiroth. “Why go after your little friend? Well,” he began loquaciously as he grabbed Squall by the hair and bodily dragged him half-upright. He started to walk slowly, half-dragging a stumbling Squall behind him. “Back in my world there lived some of us who could copy the traits of others onto themselves. Unfortunately, they all became ill and perished.

“But your friend –

“Well –

“He’s perfectly healthy, isn’t he?”

Squall could only groan, concentrating on moving his feet one in front of the other.

“I am sorry,” said Sephiroth lightly, “but I’m going to have to give you over to _him_. He... will have fun with you.”

\- - -

 **  
_Now_   
**

_Squall knows the boy is calling his name the same way he knows he’s in love. He hopes the boy gets to him -_

Squall is dragged by the Emperor into Kefka’s castle. As soon as he lets go of Squall’s arm, Squall rounds on him.

“Who is he?” Squall demands, asking of the man in the Crystal World.

“Such insolence,” tuts the Emperor, walking gracefully past Squall and towards the small gathering of their allies. Squall breathes deeply for a moment, then follows.

Kefka, Sephiroth, Ultimecia and Kuja are milling around, chatting like old acquaintances. They turn on the Emperor’s approach. Squall is largely ignored except by Ultimecia, who walks over and grabs Squall’s arm.

“My knight,” she sooths, “how did you fair?”

“He did not fair well,” the Emperor announces to the room at large. All eyes land on Squall.

He bares his teeth and moves away from the sorceress. He points at the Emperor. “I did as you asked.”

“But you failed the test,” says the man patiently.

Squall narrows his eyes. “But I killed – “ he stops abruptly. Oh, he thinks. The test was not to see if he could kill Firion – the Emperor already knows he is capable of such a simple thing – the test was something else entirely. Squall should know, but he doesn’t...

The Emperor turns away from him, bored. “It’s unorthodox,” he says to Sephiroth, as if continuing an old conversation, “but he cannot be trusted. Do what you must.”

Kuja stiffens. Kefka laughs and starts bouncing around the room.

“No,” says Ultimecia. She comes forward bodily shields Squall from the rest of them. “He is loyal to me.” She turns to face him. “Aren’t you, my knight?”

Squall bows his head. “I am.”

There’s movement behind him, though, and he reacts too late – Kefka grabs Squall’s arms and pulls them behind him, holding him fast, laughing in his ear. Squall struggles and looks at Ultimecia for help – but she’s moving away, looking as sad and resigned as Kuja. “There’s no running from this pain,” she tells Squall sadly, glancing at him over her shoulder.

Squall stills, tense in Kefka’s hands. “What do you mean?”

As Emperor Mateus, Ultimecia and Kuja come to stand side-by-side, the Emperor answers: “It is the will of the gods.”

Kuja lets out a small, disbelieving half-laugh.

Sephiroth moves towards Squall carefully, sword appearing in his left hand. Squall watches it closely and is surprised to see Sephiroth use it on himself: he makes a deep cut on his right hand, then makes a fist and lifts it to Squall’s face. Squall turns his face away.

“Open your mouth,” Sephiroth instructs.

Squall clamps his jaw shut.

“Open your mouth or I will cut you a new one.”

Kefka cackles. “Cut you a new one, cut you a new one!” he taunts.

Squall shuts his eyes and parts his lips slightly, just enough for the blood Sephiroth squeezes from his fist to trickle in.

The first thing Squall notes is that Sephiroth’s blood is as cold as the man himself. That is Sephiroth – cool, uncaring and selfish. The blood is thick and tastes of poison. It slides down Squall’s throat and he breathes deeply through his nostrils, trying to swallow it down. The aftertaste is foul.

\- - -

 _  
**Then**   
_

He didn’t know how many times he had died. It could have been just a couple, or it could have been a hundred. He guessed it was possibly a round about ten, as Jecht looked a little tired, but not as tired as someone who had performed a hundred killing blows.

They had Squall shackled to a large sword, arms way over his head and legs dangling. The area was hot and dark; it was known only as ‘Dream’s End’.

One time:

Jecht said, “Chaos is the god you worship,” then asked, “Who is the god you worship?”

Squall replied, “Cosmos.”

Jecht rotated his shoulder as if it were sore, then punched Squall in the gut. His ribs cracked and blood filled his lungs. He spat some on the ground. He glared, but said nothing; what was the point?

“Come on,” Jecht taunted lazily, “just die already.”

Squall did.

Another time:

Jecht said, “Chaos is the god you worship,” then asked, “Who is the god you worship?”

Squall’s jaw was broken and he couldn’t reply. He was on the brink of death. “You gonna cry?” asked his assailant. “Gonna cry like a baby?”

Squall didn’t.

Over Jecht’s shoulder Squall saw Kuja gliding, watching on like a silent war angel. Sometimes Kuja was there, and sometimes it was Ultimecia or even Emperor Mateus. Jecht turned slightly and raised his voice to Kuja, “This guy looks like a kid. How old is he, anyway?”

Squall answered before Kuja could. “I’m eighteen,” said Squall. At least, he thought he was, his memory was getting hazy and he was less sure.

Jecht growled and shook his head. “Just a kid,” he muttered.

Squall died.

Another time:

Jecht said, “Chaos is the god you worship,” then asked, “Who is the god you worship?”

Squall replied, “Not Chaos.”

“Every time you die,” Jecht explained in his rough voice, “you are reborn, right? It’s the cycle or whatever.”

Squall hung on his chains and said nothing.

“And every time you die,” the rough man continued, “you lose a chunk of memories. If you’re lucky, you’ll lose a lot. But I gotta hand it to ya kid, you’re stubborn.”

Squall thought about a boy in blue and gold running through a field of flowers, and wondered who he was.

“Tell ya what,” said Jecht, stepping forward and hefting his large sword onto one shoulder, “I’ll keep aiming for the head. Hopefully, it will make things go a little faster.”

Another time:

“I used to be like you,” Jecht told him, “a pawn of Cosmos.”

The final time:

After Squall’s rebirth it was a beautiful man with long violet hair who chained him to the sword. He left the chains long so Squall could sit on the ground with his back leaning against the hard surface.

Squall examined the shackles on his wrists in confusion, then looked up at the man kneeling before him. “Who are you?”

The man laughed humourlessly and flicked his hair over one shoulder. “I’m the person who’s going to tell you something very important, so you had better listen.”

Squall nodded.

The other man looked around them as if checking they were alone, then leaned close and murmured in Squall’s ear:

“A man is going to come here and he is going to ask you who you worship, and you have to answer with ‘Chaos’. It doesn’t matter if it is the truth, or if it is a lie, it is just important that you answer this way and that you act obediently.”

“And who do I worship?” Squall asked. “Is it you?”

The man paused, bowing his head in contemplation. He whispered, finally, lips close to Squall’s ear. “Whomever you wish.” A pause. “The one you hold in your heart.”

There was no denying who that person would be. As Squall understood, it took far less energy to love than to hate, and even though Squall couldn’t remember the boy’s name, just remembering his smile was enough for something warm and bright to be born shining in his heart.

\- - -

 **  
_Now_   
**

Squall and Sephiroth stand together on a high cliff in the Lunar Subterrane, arms crossed, patiently waiting in the dark. The wind blows, ruffling their hair. It’s easy for Squall to obey Sephiroth’s will; all Sephiroth has to do is _think_ and Squall _does_ as if Squall is just a mindless puppet. Squall gives in to the control of the ‘genetic legacy’ now coursing through his veins. It’s easier to give in. Life is meaningless.

They spot a lone man walking across the dust below them. He is blonde and seems a little sad. He drags his large sword along with him as if it is very heavy, but it seems less like a burden and more like a possession he needs, can’t live without, despite its weight.

Sephiroth says two words to Squall:

“Kill him.”

Squall dashes off the cliff fast as lightning. Midflight he attacks with Rough Divide, hitting his now aware target and smashing him against the ground. Squall dodges quickly away and shoots his target twice just as his target stands. The man falls again, grunting in pain from the bullets in his chest.

He aims again –

“Squall,” the other man grunts out, staggering, making Squall pause, “what are you doing?”

Squall watches him with keen eyes. He knows that on the cliff Sephiroth is watching unblinkingly.

“Do I know you?” he asks.

The man’s glowing eyes slide from Squall to Sephiroth on the cliff, then back again. “It’s me,” he answers tiredly, “Cloud.”

Squall doesn’t know him. “Fight me – “

“Not interested – “

Squall casts Fated Circle but Cloud dodges away. Again Squall attacks and again Cloud dodges backwards, then quickly attacks, sending Squall flying. He lands gracelessly, bouncing, on the hard ground.

Cloud walks forward and Squall stands. “I don’t know what happened to you,” Cloud tells him frankly, gazing into his eyes, “but I know for sure that _he_ \- “ he points with his sword at Sephiroth, “ - _doesn’t_ actually want you to kill me. He believes that the only person who should be allowed to have me, is him.”

Suddenly the urge to kill Cloud ends as per Sephiroth’s mental command. It seems Sephiroth had been listening. Of course, Squall shouldn’t have doubted.

Cloud continues to stare at Squall imploringly. Squall puts away his gunblade and nods. He will not wish Cloud good luck, but he secretly hopes he’ll win.

Cloud and Sephiroth fight. Squall watches from afar, but his spectatorship is soon interrupted by the arrival of Kuja.

Kuja steps up beside him and for a moment they watch the fight together. “An entertaining show,” Kuja comments mordantly. Then more soberly he adds, “You need to come to Kefka’s Castle. Now.”

Kuja leaves far more abruptly than his usual flamboyant exits. Just this small act is enough for the prickle of fear to creep up the back of Squall’s neck. He leaves the Subtarrane and travels the void to Kefka’s castle. He arrives at the back, alone, and follows the many jubilant voices around the corner.

The Emperor, Kefka, Ultimecia and Kuja are gathered around one of the tanks.

“Well? WELL?” Kefka demands of Emperor Mateus, bouncing around. “What do you think?” He gesticulates largely to the tanks. Someone’s in there but Squall can’t see past Ultimecia to see who it is.

“Good work,” says Emperor Mateus tonelessly.

“AHA-HA!” Kefka shouts, pointing a Squall and dancing on the spot. The others turn and look at him. Then, “Eh? Eh? Where’s the other one?”

Squall crosses his arms. “Sephiroth is occupied.”

Kefka makes an angry, frustrated noise. “Then I’ll have to pour the Mako without him.” He turns and flicks a switch on the wall. It makes a loud metallic _thunk_ then Squall hears the sound of liquid pouring into the tank.

“It seems we’ve all been very busy,” Ultimecia titters. She steps aside and for the first time Squall can see who is in the tank.

His breath catches in his throat. His jaw clenches as his whole body tenses.

The room spins.

He blinks several times. His heart hammers painfully.

There’s a man half-sitting, slumped over, in the tank. He’s got brown hair and his clothes are the colours of blue and gold. Squall doesn’t even notice he’s walking towards the tank until he’s taken many steps. There’s silence around him; the others are observant and Squall blocks out their presence.

Green poison is fast filling the tank. From his slumped position the man looks up at Squall, who has now arrived. His brown eyes widen, then his lips curve upwards in a sad smile. He struggles to stand, using his hands placed on the glass to try and lift himself up.

Though his eyes never stray from the man in the tank, he directs his next question to Kefka, who is standing restlessly just to the side. “What’s wrong with him?” Squall asks, deep and toneless. “Why is he too weak to break through the glass?”

Ultimecia answers. “We have forced him to wear The Rotten,” she says. She laughs. “It was my idea. Ingenious, no?”

As the man in the tank struggles to stand, Squall sees clearly the accessory is on a choker around his neck. It dangles against his throat and has the appearance of a rusted key. The green poison has now filled the tank up to his chest.

The man places his left hand against the glass and gives Squall another tired smile. Squall lifts his own hand and places it against the glass as well. He pretends he can feel the heat of the man’s hand through the glass.

 _Squall_ , the man mouths.

“Bartz,” Squall replies. Oh, he thinks. “I remember your name.”

Bartz’s only reply is to gaze back sadly.

An anger wells up strong from the pit of Squall’s stomach, it’s so fierce and relentless that it only takes a second for him to be shaking with it. His jaw clenches hard.

In one move he summons his gunblade and shoots Kefka twice in the head. The man falls. With his free hand he attacks Ultimecia’s face with magic – she screams. He dashes to the Emperor and attacks him with a flurrying combo, blasting him away. He runs back to the tank, and uses the momentum of his run to smash the tank.

The shattering is loud and glass flies everywhere. Squall sheathes his gunblade and grabs Bartz, both arms wrapped around his slimmer frame. He manages to use dodge technique to get them far enough for them to pause so he can manoeuvre Bartz on his back piggy-back style. Bartz is so weak that Squall has to do most of the work. But Squall is afraid: he knows Kefka is dead and if they’re lucky the Emperor is too injured to follow, but he knows Ultimecia is only stunned and Kuja is nearby –

As if following his thoughts they run into Kuja as they round the corner. Kuja lifts his hand –

“Get down,” he says –

Squall dodges aside and Kuja’s Seraphic Star hits Ultimecia, who had been about to attack them from behind.

“Leave through that door,” Kuja commands, pointing to the door at the end of the walkway.

Squall nods his thanks and runs to the door, smashing through –

The door shuts behind them, then there’s silence.

Squall kneels down on solid ground. They’re in an empty, desolate part of the world and there’s nothing but hard ground, fog, and darkness. He slowly allows Bartz to slide off his back and into Squall’s arms. Squall cradles him and looks at his face. Bartz’s eyes flutter open and closed. He’s very pale. Squall swallows the lump in his throat and wills away the painful gathering-feeling in his sinuses – he wills himself not to cry. He holds his dying friend with his right arm and with his left hand he struggles to free Bartz from The Rotten accessory around his neck. The buckle on the choker is on tight and it takes several frustrating tries to get it off.

When it’s off he throws it away. Bartz lifts one shaking hand and touches Squall’s face. “Hey you,” Bartz whispers. “You saved me. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’ll always have your back,” says Squall, words catching in his throat.

Bartz’s hand falls away. Tears well in his eyes and one falls down past his temple. Rainbow light starts to slowly gather around him.

“Don’t forget me,” says Squall.

“I’ll come back,” says Bartz, so quietly Squall can barely hear, “so wait for me.” His last words as he fades are, “Promise, okay?”

Squall stays kneeling for some time. Twice he punches the ground, biting back the scream in his throat.

After he gets up he goes for a walk. He lazily travels the fog and the dust, dragging his feet. He doesn’t know when Bartz will return, or where. He could even return to Kefka’s Castle though it seems the general rule that rebirth occurs in the same area.

After what may have been hours, or a day, or many days, Squall stops. He stands alone, believing for a moment that holding Bartz in his arms had only been a dream. Hope is like a white moth, flittering and following the light, trusting. It’s so easy to crush, all that is needed is a single doubting thought.

So this is despair.

And just when it all feels lost, hopeless – when breath seems to Squall as unnecessary - he hears someone calling his name from a distance.

He looks to his left and sure enough someone is running towards him, waving, calling, “Squall!” It is Bartz and he is like a bright light in the fog, visible in blue and gold. He is like a sailing ship causing waves: where his feet touch the ground, the ground becomes fertile, grass and flowers blossoming around and behind him. Squall’s heart swells in his chest. He feels such joy that he can’t help his lips from curving into a smile.

Sun breaks through the clouds, dispersing the fog. The fertility of grass, flowers, petals, pollen – it all outruns Bartz and spreads over to Squall and past him until the area is completely transformed.

Another second later and Bartz dashes straight into Squall’s awaiting arms. The momentum sends them spinning once, then falling over gracelessly. Squall lands on top, but still he holds on tight to his friend, just as Bartz’s arms tighten around Squall’s shoulders.

Squall burries his face in Bartz’s shoulder and breathes him in. He smells familiar, warm and friendly. After a moment Bartz’s arms loosen and Squall adjusts himself so he is pushed up a little, leaning on his forearms. From this position he can see Bartz’s face clearly. Bartz is smiling, eyes flickering over Squall’s face appreciatively.

Squall moves down, cradles Bartz’s head with one hand, and kisses him softly. He dares not prolong the kiss, even though he wants to, badly. With one last brush of his lips he pulls away, eyes cast down, and hopes Bartz doesn’t hate him.

There’s silence from the other man except for the short breaths he emits. Squall allows himself to finally look at his friend again.

Bartz is looking back fondly. “Idiot,” he says before he pulls Squall down for another kiss, this time open-mouthed and deep. Bartz’s arms tighten around his shoulders as he moves his mouth over Squall’s languidly, passionately. Bartz shifts underneath him, moving his thighs apart and bending his knees so as to bracket Squall’s hips better. The slip of tongue in Squall’s mouth makes them both moan and Bartz’s hand slips into Squall’s hair, caressing, thumb light grazing his earlobe.

Squall could stay here forever, drowning. But Bartz’s kisses become enthusiastic and his movements forceful. His hips lightly thrust up to create some friction. The hand in Squall’s hair tightens, relaxes, tightens. The knuckles of his other hand graze down Squall’s front over his clothed chest and belly then stop at his belts, where he tries to undo the buckles.

Squall pulls away from Bartz’s mouth in surprise. He looks down at Bartz and takes in the red of his cheeks, his swollen lips and the lust evident in his eyes. “You – “

“Yeah,” Bartz whispers. “Can I?” Without an answer from Squall he continues to fiddle with the buckle on the first belt, and then the second when the first is undone. He abandons them after the second is loosened to forcefully pull Squall’s shirt off his back and over his head. Bartz moans at the sight of Squall half-naked and proceeds to touch him, smoothing his hands over his pectorals and muscular stomach. He leans up for another heated kiss and gets to work on the third belt.

Squall’s head is spinning. Then Bartz wriggles his hand down Squall’s pants and touches him, causing him to gasp loudly against Bartz’s lips. Squall shuts his eyes tight and braces himself, breathing deeply and moaning as Bartz strokes him firmly, then pushes his hand further down to gently cup his balls, then strokes back up again. Squall buries his face in Bartz’s neck and breaths in deeply – even with this simple fondling Squall feels the pull of an oncoming orgasm.

With rapid, jerky movements he uses his teeth to pull off his leather glove and reaches down between them, pushing up the material around Bartz’s hips and slipping his hand under the waistband of his leggings. He touches skin and strokes, returning the favour. Bartz throws his head back and gasps, hand on Squall faltering a little, then mouths Squall’s cheek.

“Kiss me,” he says.

Squall lifts his head from Bartz’s neck and finds his mouth, kissing him with passion; slipping his tongue in as far as it can go, possessive. Their hands on each other’s sex speed up again and Squall feel the hot pull in his abdomen and groin. He pulls away from the other man’s mouth and gasps out, free hand on Bartz’s wrist, “Wait, stop – “

But Bartz does the opposite and goes that much faster and Squall cums, blacks out momentarily, and rides the euphoric wave back to consciousness.

Then the embarrassment sets in and he burries his face in Bartz’s neck again. “Sorry,” he mutters. He moves his hand between the man’s legs and is surprised to feel wetness there.

“Sorry for what?” Bartz half-laughs. He sounds extremely happy.

Squall pulls his hand away and smiles down at him. “Nothing.” He slides off him and lays down. Feels the grass under his palms. Bartz slips his hand into his and links their fingers.

“I feel like,” Bartz begins, “like I’ve been waiting for you for ages. But it was worth it.”

Squall looks at him side-along and notes the sun on his face, the sweep of his hair against his cheek bone. “You were waiting?”

Bartz gives Squall’s hand a squeeze. “Mmm-hmm.” His eyelids fall closed.

After a short nap the two friends talk some more, but there’s an anticipatory sadness to their conversing because they both know they can’t stay here forever, that soon they will have to go back.

In the end Bartz stands and holds out his hand for Squall to take. Squall does take it, standing also, his hand lingering in Bartz’s easy grip. “Ready?” he asks.

“Ah – “ Bartz hesitates. “Yeah. Just – kiss me first?”

Squall takes him in his arms and kisses him softly. He pulls away. “This isn’t goodbye.”

Bartz slaps him on the arm. “I know that,” he says, playfully.

They find a portal and travel to the Crystal World. Zidane and Kuja are there, standing on the central platform. Zidane calls for them and waves them over. Squall and Bartz dash towards their friends, still holding hands. When they land Zidane stares at them.

“Okay...” he says. “Should I even ask?”

“I’ll let you in on all the details later,” says Bartz easily.

Squall tries not to roll his eyes. He lets go of Bartz’s hand and steps over to Kuja, who is standing a little ways apart from the group. “How did you fair after we left?”

Kuja flicks his hair nonchalantly. “They killed me,” he confesses, “but I don’t much care.”

“Well _I_ care,” says Zidane fiercely, bouncing over. He jumps behind Kuja and hugs him from behind. Kuja pulls a disgusted face and tries to wrestle him off.

“We care,” Squall tells him honestly, “we’re your friends.”

Kuja’s so surprised he stops struggling. He chokes. “I don’t have friends.”

“You do now,” says Bartz, coming over and slinging an arm over Squall’s shoulders, “so you better get used to it!”

 **\---End.**

\- - -


End file.
